


Summer On Your Skin

by CatAvalon (CazinaIna)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Music, Eventual Smut, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Making Out, Otabach, Protective Nikolai Plisetsky, Summer, end game piano sex don't worry lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-26 02:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10777563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CazinaIna/pseuds/CatAvalon
Summary: Yuri is a ballet dancer, and Otabek is the pianist upstairs that likes to play with his balcony doors open. The two meet by accident and are drawn together instantly, Otabek the sun to Yuri's moon.Or, the Otabach AU that no one asked for but I'm going to write anyway.





	1. Nocturne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daddybek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daddybek/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little something that I've been sitting on for a while now, thanks to [ daddybek](http://daddybek.tumblr.com/)  
> on tumblr. I wanted to join in on the pun game and thus, Otabach was born and he will forever live in my heart.
> 
> I'm not going to have a set upload schedule for this- it's definitely for fun and to ease the angst in my heart from my other fic :L
> 
> Although I seriously don't think I've done this justice, I present to you Summer on your Skin.

Summer to Yuri meant a handful of things. It was returning home to St Petersburg for a few months to spend time with his _dedushka_. Sickly sweet honeysuckle carrying in the breeze from the streets below. Cat hair clinging to clammy skin, the delicate rumbling of a purr against the curve of his hip. Hot metal of a wrought iron chair pressing into bare thighs as he sits on the balcony.

Something new presented itself in Yuri’s eighteenth summer. A small change in the habit that had become lazy months away from the world of ballet training. It begins a few weeks into his stay, a soft tinkling like fairy wings drifting in through open doors. The gauzy curtains danced with the melody, and when it grew louder, Yuri danced too. More often than not, it was solemn sonatas, heavy, methodic, rehearsed. Beautiful still, but nothing with the feeling Yuri longed to breathe into his lungs. 

It was always later when the mood shifted; a secret, awakening with the sunset like fireflies, coaxing Yuri outside like a siren at sea. Everything was sweeter in the evening, the music like scattered rays of sun in his bones compelling him to dance, a horizon of orange and amber breaking through his skin, painted across worn tile with the tips of his toes.

“Yurochka,” Grandpa hums from the kitchen, one evening as his pirouettes turn to orbits around crescendos. “You’ve never looked more like your mother.”

If the music was Yuri’s sun, then his mother was his stars, constantly above him, reminding him of where he had to go and who he had to be. Yuri could gaze at the night sky all he wanted and know that like her, most of those stars were dead.

The music transitions to one of those cursed sonatas, and Yuri takes his place at the dinner table, underneath a framed picture of the Prima Ballerina who rules his universe. _Rules_. Even now when she’s blinked out of existence, Yulia Plisetskaya is attached to his body in the way that he moves, the voice in his head that keeps him working, striving, towards something he’s not even sure he wants anymore. _You ruined me, Yurochka. I want you to ruin yourself until you’re the greatest. Nothing else matters._

Dinner crumbles to ash on his tongue. There’s probably too much fat, or salt, or _food_ for a danseur anyway. 

His grandfather bids him farewell for the evening with a look that could only be described as disappointment. Yuri’s fingers are playing with his fork, a good two thirds of stroganoff decorating the off-white ceramic with a waxing moon. A crater is carved with his fork, and _dedushka_ leaves to play cards with a satisfied nod.

It never makes it’s way to his mouth.

Yuri hums to fill the silence, off key and tentative as if he’s afraid of being overheard. Somewhere between his first bite and his last, the music had stopped, leaving him with an emptiness he couldn’t quite explain. It sets his bones on edge, ready to jump out of his skin as soon as the first chord is played.

He takes his waiting game to the balcony, a cup of green tea cradled in his palms. Between sips he stretches, contorting his frame into shapes no young man of his age should be able to do with such ease. It’s easy to convince himself that he’s actually doing something beneficial, not wasting time until he can listen to the music again.

Whenever he’s desperate to hear it, to feel the piano keys play harmonies on his heart strings, it felt like an eternity. Patience was never Yuri’s virtue, but he knew. Knew eventually the sun would begin to descend and soft, intimate music would play and he would bathe in it like moonlight.

For now, he’s content in the warmth of the concrete under his legs, the way Potya basks in the attention that Yuri gives him in scratches behind his ears, the fragrant taste of tea lingering on his lips.

Finally, as he’s contemplating returning to his room to do _something_ , the piano starts. Gentle, like a caress, and it brushes over Yuri’s skin with phantom fingers. _This_. This was what he was waiting for. Secret songs the colour of roses, blushing pink and fiery red, passionate and tantalising, spicy in his lungs. 

Yuri allows his head to lull against the concrete, eyes fluttering shut as the same piece is played over and over. Sometimes it’s slower, deeper, sensual in the way making love is, smooth as velvet against his skin. Then other times it morphs into frantic heat, hot and desperate like scalding kisses and _shit_ , Yuri actually feels himself turned on by fucking _music_. 

_Clash_. Yuri jerks upright as dissonant keys are smashed, sending Potya, who was dozing on his chest, scarpering. A second bang echoes out into the open, and Yuri sits with baited breath as the pianist utters out a very vehement _fuck_.

Yuri snorts so loudly it burns his throat, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to mask his laughter. It escapes through the gaps in his fingers, uninhibited and free. Yuri can’t remember a time he had sounded so alive.

After his shoulders still, a head peeks over the balcony railings, tan skin flushed pink, a sheepish grin painted on perfect lips. Yuri blinks once, twice, and the stranger mirrors him before leaning out further, resting on bare arms. “Sorry about that.”

“You’re sorry?” Yuri says, shaking his head so blond hair covers his reddening cheeks. Shame built up in his throat as he realises he’d been caught observing something private.“I’m the weirdo listening to you play. _I_ should be saying sorry.”

“I don’t mind.” Dark eyes regard him with such wonderment that Yuri’s skin blisters under the attention. He’s attractive, ridiculously so- even at this distance, Yuri can tell. And right now, he’s gazing down at Yuri like he’s discovered Atlantis buried under the sea.

Yuri hadn’t wanted anything in such a long time, had never asked for anything he knew he shouldn’t have. Every atom of his being longed to get close to this mystery of a man, an undeniable magnetism tugging at his chest. _Attraction,_ at it’s rawest, unrefined and incomparable to anything he’d felt before.

_Fuck it, I’ve already embarrassed myself once_. “Wanna take a break with me?”

His sun beams down at him. “I’d like nothing more.”

*

His name is Otabek and he’s _short_. Short in a way that makes Yuri want to wrap every limb around him, to press his cheek into his wavy hair. 

Otabek is also _built_. Broad shoulders and glorious arms, straining against the thin material of his t-shirt. Yuri felt fragile in comparison, sinewy and slender like a china doll. 

_I wouldn’t mind being broken by those hands, though_.

“Tea? Coffee?” Yuri asks, piling his hair on top of his head and securing it with a clip. 

“Tea’s fine,” he answers, eyes drifting to the milky expanse of Yuri’s neck and flushing when he realises he’s been discovered.

He’d already caught Otabek studying him once, eyes raking over the pale flesh of his thighs, the sliver of skin exposed under the hem of his shirt. _Thank the heavens I wore these shorts._ They were powder blue, imitation silk because Yuri definitely couldn’t afford the real thing, slipping over the curves of his hips in a way that made _dedushka_ shake his head at him.

If only he could see Yuri now, the _accidentally_ provocative way he bent to pick up a dropped spoon, carelessly brushing against Otabek’s side as he filled the kettle. 

Maybe he was laying it on a little thick, but Yuri didn’t do things by halves.

“So, piano, huh?” Yuri’s long legs are propped up on the railing, lilac toenails glinting in the soft glow of twilight. Potya was making himself at home on Otabek’s lap. Yuri hadn’t asked if he liked cats, but from the happy curve of his lips as he tickled under the Ragdoll’s chin, Yuri had made his assumptions.

“Yeah. Piano.” Yuri’s rewarded with a tiny smirk before Otabek brings his mug to his lips. He’d raised his eyes at the shocking pink leopard print but hadn’t complained. 

“That’s pretty cool. A lot of people wish they can play.”

“So I’ve been told.” He voice is cold, disconnected, startlingly distant for someone who spends hours a day slaving over the instrument.

Yuri frowns into his mug, clacking his teeth against the rim and regarding Otabek with uncertainty. “You don’t sound that happy to talk about it. We don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not that- it’s just people normally see me as a musician and that’s it.” Yuri gets that. He _gets_ it. It’s so easy to label someone as their profession and overlook the person behind it. Yuri’s a danseur, but he’s _Yuri_ first, something so often discarded in his line of work.

A sly smile busies his lips and he leans closer _just so_ , the loose shirt he’s wearing slipping off one slender shoulder.

“Oh, I can assure you I’m seeing much more than just a musician.” Otabek flushes scarlet to the tips of his ears, and Yuri grins at him, rubbing circles into. “I’m sure those fingers are good at more than just piano.”

“Yuri, please, we met five minutes ago.” Shifting in his chair, he tries to school away how flustered he is but fails.

Can’t helping but smile, Yuri strokes his dozing cat before settling back.“So there’s a time limit before I can flirt?”

“No, I’d just like to get to know you first.” _What a gentleman_. Yuri’s not used to someone wanting to _know_ him before fucking him- if that was where this was even leading, and Yuri prayed to God that it was. Tucking his knees under his chin, he stares Otabek down with a challenging eyebrow raised. “I don’t know. What do you like to do?”

_Suck dick?_ Yuri mentally shakes himself. When did he become so goddamn _thirsty_? Smoothing his hands over the watery sheen of his shorts seems to take him down a notch _._ “Ballet. I like to dance.”

“I know.” Now _that_ intrigued him.

“You know?”

“I’ve seen you.”

“You’ve seen me?” 

_You sound like a fucking parrot, get a hold of yourself._ But Yuri can’t help but preen at the thought that a stranger had seen him, watched him. It felt oddly intimate, this confession. The urge to grab those musician's hands and guide them to his body is desperate, but the desire to hear stories of how Otabek had seen him outweighs the hormonal longing building in his stomach.

“It’s hard not to watch someone so beautiful, even from seven stories below in the street.”

_Beautiful_. No one had ever called him beautiful, not openly or freely like Otabek had. _Hot_. _Sexy_. Plenty of that. _Stunning_ even, but only if he dressed up and lay face down.

There was that _look_ again. Wonder, as if Yuri’s treasure, and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch- and _God_ is he allowed to touch.

_Fuck getting to know each other._

Cat be _damned_ , if Yuri wasn’t pressed against Otabek’s body soon he was going to snarl, hungry and lustful like the teenager he is. Noticing his owner’s sudden approach, Potya jumps away with a disapproving mewl, but he really couldn’t care less for his feline’s feelings. Sliding into Otabek’s lap is the second best decision he’s made all day (after the shorts). Long legs straddling hips, calloused fingers tentatively trailing up his thighs, his stomach, until they rest on the bare skin of his waist. Muscles tense beneath his palm as he rests a hand on Otabek’s chest, and Yuri cocks his head. “Is this okay?”

Fingers curl into the hair at his nape and tug him closer, the only response he gets, the only one that he wants. Yuri takes a moment just to stare into Otabek’s eyes, mahogany brown and flecked with gold. Gold like the hair gripped in the other man’s fist. Seductively slow, he releases his hair from it's clip, and it flows around him in a waterfall of waves. “ _Please_.” 

The first kiss is feather-light and testing, a brush so tender it leaves Yuri trembling for more. _More more more_. The words reverberate in his head as he tilts Otabek’s chin up, pressing his lips _once_ , _twice_ to the ever so subtle dimple above his thumb before moving back to that wonderful, welcoming mouth.

“ _Yuri_ ,” he breathes against his skin, and he’s gone. Melting into nothing but smouldering flames wherever Otabek’s hands touched. By his neck, he’s drawn closer, _closer_ , until it’s all he can do not to moan at the feeling of being consumed. Hot breaths escape his lungs as he breaks away, just for a moment, before dancing his tongue against the stubble of Otabek’s jaw. 

All Yuri can focus on is the soft groans that begin to escape from the other, how he tries to smother them into the sensitive skin of his neck. He definitely doesn’t hear the front door click from inside the apartment. Doesn’t hear the scuff of footsteps against hardwood as someone approaches. The world is a swirl of the slow circles he’s rolling into Otabek’s hips, the lips trailing down his neck, the knick of teeth against his clavicle, the strong hands massaging the muscles of his ass.

A throat clears, ripping into the night like a chainsaw. “And who might you be?”

All but falling to the floor, Yuri stumbles out of Otabek’s lap and back into his own chair. He _really_ can’t stand right now, feeling boneless and hazy and ridiculously turned on. Otabek’s eyes are blown wide with horror, darting between grandfather and grandson with swollen lips that were definitely glistening with saliva.

Yuri rubs the back of his arm over his own mouth.

“Grandpa, this is Otabek. He’s, uh, from the apartment above ours.”

“Is that so?” Forced. Everything about the smile, the friendly tilt to his head, is forced. Yuri watches as Otabek’s throat bobs as he swallows.

“It’s nice to meet you?” He offers _dedushka_ his hand, but Yuri can only think about where it had been just moments ago- his ass was still warm from the contact. 

Grandpa's eyebrows raise, hidden beneath the low brim of his hat.“Is it?”

“Oh _God_ , Grandpa, let it _go,”_ Yuri stands and grabs Otabek’s wrist. He freezes under his touch, and Yuri hopes it only because of the death glare that’s zeroed on to his fingers wrapped around the other's arm. “I’ll walk you back to your door.”

“Oh no you _won’t_ , Yurochka.” But Yuri’s already stuffed his feet into slippers left abandoned by the balcony door, dragging a bewildered Otabek behind him. Grandpa knows better than to fight him right now- he may have inherited his stubbornness from him, but it had manifested a million times stronger in the younger generation. Plus, Yuri knew he would never raise his voice at him in front of a stranger. Too goddamn proud for that.

Mama looks down disapprovingly at him as they walk past. She’d be rolling in her grave if she could see him now, love bites blossoming at his throat, hair inappropriately mussed.

Once outside, both men breathe sighs of relief, collapsing against the peeling paint and simply looking at each other for a moment.

Then they burst into laughter. 

“Fuck, Otabek, I’m going to be skinned alive tonight.”

“I hope not, I happen to really like your skin,” he says with a secret smile, brushing the back of his hand against Yuri’s cheekbone. “Was it worth it?”

“ _Was it worth it_?” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. The skin under Otabek’s fingers prickles with heat even after contact is withdrawn. Pushing off the wall, Yuri trails towards the stairwell making sure he sways his hips _just so_ to catch the other’s attention. “Hell _yeah_ , it was worth it.”

“So we can do that again?” Pausing mid-step, he glances over his shoulder.

“What, did you think this was gonna be a one-time thing?” Yuri shakes his head, exasperated. “Of course we can do it again.”

“Properly this time, though.” Otabek takes a few steps up so he’s higher than him, looking down at him sincerely, warm and honest. Yuri wants to push him down and kiss him into the stairs.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“If that’s what you want.”

_A date_. That’s new, too. Normally it was hookups late at night and hurrying back in the morning before anyone could see his unwashed hair. A date with an attractive, attentive person who seemed genuinely interested- Yuri had wanted that longer than he would like to admit.

“I’d like that.” Otabek leans down and kisses him sweetly, and it doesn’t last nearly as long as he wants it too. “I’d like it even more if you did that again.”

“Maybe next time,” he says, that small smile gracing his lips again, although now it’s accompanied with flushed skin. “Go back to your grandfather. I don’t want him to worry.”

“ _Please,_ ” he says, but he knows he’s right. Yuri wouldn’t be surprised if the old man was spying on them through the peephole. 

“Go.” Nudging him lightly with his foot, Yuri gets the hint and saunters away, glancing behind him one last time just to catch Otabek staring at his ass. _Excellent_. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Seven. He’s going out at seven.”

“Then I’ll be there after seven.” Nodding, he lifts his hand in a pathetic little wave, but Otabek return’s it nonetheless. Then, he sucks in a deep breath and disappears inside the apartment.

The door shutting behind him is an eclipse, stealing away the sun that had walked into his life.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know what's going on tbh but that's okay because I love me some piano playing soft boys.
> 
> Really though, I spent the day writing and to take a break away from it, I wrote this. How does that even work? I don't know.
> 
> This will hopefully be updated sporadically- there's no set plotline as of yet, I have ideas bouncing around a noted but I'm just gonna let this one roll off the tips of my fingers. That also means you can feel free to shout ideas at me about this! Give me some guidance- I definitely need it!


	2. Accelerando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi
> 
> ...
> 
>  
> 
> ...
> 
> I said it'd be a while I'm sorry D:

Fast. _Too_ fast. Yuri feels out of control, hands trembling at his face, tracing the memory of hot kisses on his skin. A _date_. With Otabek, the stupidly hot neighbour from upstairs. 

_What are you, fucking twelve?_

Just for a moment, Yuri relaxes against the wood of the door, until slowly, the warmth he’d absorbed from Otabek evaporates in the air.

When he shuffles into the living room, Grandpa’s there, waiting. A scowl deepens the creases in his already wrinkled skin, and Yuri feels tiny, a child literally caught with his hands in the cookie jar.

“Do you really have to flaunt your sexual relations under my nose?” Is the only thing he says, not exactly with disgust, but definitely not all that accepting either.

Yuri hadn’t been caught before. Being in Moscow had been different- he was just another face in the city when he snuck out of apartments at five in the morning. Under his dedushka’s disappointed gaze, Yuri feels dirty, the fingerprints of Otabek’s affection tarnishing what was once flawless skin.

The blissful thrill of having someone under him, pliant and needy, is shredded with the shame that claws up his throat.

“Grandpa, _don’t_.” They never talked about it, his sexuality, and Yuri hadn’t felt the need to. The only mentions of it had been blunt, swept swiftly under the carpet to be purposefully ignored.

_“What, am I raising some kind of pansy?” Dedushka had scoffed the first time Yuri had come home for the summer wearing a crop top and skin tight leggings. He had been fifteen, firmly lodged in his I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think mindset._

_“Maybe you are,” was his snarky response, chewing the straw from his Starbucks cup between rouged lips._

“I won’t have you fooling around with that man under this roof.”

“If it were a girl, though, that would be okay?” Yuri dares, raising a stubborn eyebrow. “That would be fine, wouldn’t it?”

“Yurochka, you’re eighteen-”

“Exactly, I’m eighteen, not exactly a blushing virgin anymore.” The words slip out before Yuri can stop them, blazingly loud. The tips of his ears prickle with heat as the colour from his grandfather’s face drains. “I’m going to my room.”

“Yurochka, please.” Potya is scooped swiftly into his arms, and Yuri rubs his flushed face into the soft, downy fur. Why did it feel like the earth was cracking around him? “Yuri, listen to me.”

Sniffling, Yuri tries his best to ignore the pained grunts, the crackling of old bones as his dedushka stands, because he really doesn’t want to cry in front of him. If there’s one thing worse than being a _pansy_ , it’s being weak, a pathetic little crybaby. But Yuri can’t ignore him, had never really wanted to disobey his wishes, so he turns and stubbornly sticks out his chin. 

“Tell me about him.” At first, Yuri thinks he’s misheard, because why on Earth would his grandpa want to know about a relationship that obviously makes him uncomfortable.

“What?”

“Did I not speak clearly the first time? Tell me about him, Yurochka.”

“Uh, his name is Otabek, and he plays the piano.” Yuri fiddles with the faded collar around Potya’s neck, smoothing his fingers over and over the worn leather. When he glances up, dedushka is giving him the _go on_ eyes he uses when he knows Yuri’s got a secret he can’t quite spit out. Shrinking like a vampire in sunlight, Yuri purposefully avoids meeting his grandfather’s gaze. 

Eventually, an exasperated sigh echoes through the room, crackling like wind through brittle leaves. “How old is he?”

An incisor snags his bottom lip, a tiny pinprick of pain piercing through the unease crawling over his skin.

“Where is he from? He had an accent, no?” _Oh god, he did, didn’t he?_ Yuri had been so distracted by long fingers and overtly broad shoulders it hadn’t even processed in his mind that he might not have been a Russian native- although beautiful, sun soaked skin should have been a sign too. “Yurochka?”

All Yuri can offer is a pathetic shrug of his shoulders, drooping like a wilted flower into a posture that would have his mother crying from the heavens. 

Another sigh that rattles his bones. “What about his career then?”

“I told you, he plays the piano,” Yuri says gruffly, throat rough as if coated in sugar from forbidden candy, sweet from the memory but gritty with shame.

“What does he _really_ do? Who does he play for? Where? Is he a soloist? An accompanist?”

“Look, I get it, okay?” Yuri throws his hands in the air, spooking Potya and sending him scarpering for safety. “I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. You’ve made your point.”

With nothing to do with his hands now, Yuri crosses them over his chest. He knows he looks like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but he can’t help but feel as if he’s being boxed into a corner. _Dedushka_ reaches out to touch his hair, the jut of his jaw still burning with forbidden touches, and Yuri has half a mind to turn away, but this time he doesn’t. “Can’t you see why I’m so concerned? You barely know the young man. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt.”

_Hurt_. “So it’s not because he’s a guy.”

Nikolai barks out a laugh the just makes deepens Yuri’s scowl, and if he’s not careful he’s going to have to worry about premature wrinkles. “Yurochka, as long as you’re happy, then it doesn’t concern me. But the two of you are strangers- at least get to know him first before you are, _ahem_ , intimate.”

“He’s taking me out tomorrow,” Yuri finally announces, dropping his guard enough to indulge in a small smile.

“Good,” he says with a firm nod, and of course grandpa’s okay with good old fashioned courting. “I’m expecting you back by midnight.”

“I’m not a child, dedushka!”

“And,” he says, giving Yuri a look so pointed it pricks his skin. “I will know if you go sneaking up to that apartment. Don’t you test me, boy.”

Yuri grumbles a begrudging _fine_ under his breath, because let’s face it, he was totally thinking of sneaking up to Otabek’s apartment, if only now to get to know him better- and maybe not just with words.

“Now put on the kettle. If you can make mysterious strangers cups of tea, you can certainly make one for your poor grandfather.”

*

There are angry red burns on the tips of his fingers, but Yuri doesn’t feel the pain. He’d wanted to curl his hair for a long time, buying a wand months ago that had just ended up collecting dust under his bed. Really, he’s been secretly wanting to see his wavy mane sleeked into glossy ringlets like some sort of angry Russian princess. _Because I am one,_ he muses, catching his skin for the umpteenth time and hissing through his teeth, _and princesses must suffer for beauty._

Before, in his shared bathroom in Moscow, he’d been too scared to go through with it. Standing in his faded velvet slip like a makeshift gown, he’d make excuse after excuse not to go through with it. _You’ll look like a try hard. You’ve got no one to look beautiful for. He’s just going grab you by the hair anyway, why bother?_

Now, he finally had a reason.

_A date_. A real date with a real guy who isn’t going to disappear at the end of the night, and if that wasn’t worth the pain of blistering his fingers to oblivion he didn’t know what was.

After a good half hour, he deems himself appropriate, ruffling the curls as a bird would their feathers, fluffing up to attract a mate. He lookw  _good_. _Really_ good, and he hadn’t even applied makeup or dressed yet. 

It’s only half five by this point, so Yuri pads around the apartment, throwing open the balcony doors and stepping out into the setting sun. Otabek hasn’t played any music yet today, and Yuri can’t help but be disappointed. Dancing without it didn’t hold the same thrill, the same delicate embrace as when perfect notes sing through his veins in sweet arias.

Yuri dances anyway, the stern gaze of his mother always enough to force him into practice, as if even from the grave she can tell he’s been slacking. _Shameful_ he hears as he lands too heavily out of his Fouettes, _did I raise an elephant or a human?_ So he spins and spins and spins, till the voice is drowning under the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Continuing to spin until the air shudders with the cry of music and Yuri is instantly bewitched, dropping down into fifth as he awaits his siren song. 

It comes slowly, notes spilling from the piano like forlorn whimpers, a dying wish begging his body to move. So he dances. Dances as if Otabek were watching him instead of playing the melody that causes his body to move like midnight waves under the influence of the moon. Where there is normally warmth, Yuri feels the sombre pull of mournful notes, fragile like spiders webs laced to his limbs, dripping with the dew of nature’s tears. 

_Strange,_ Yuri muses, unable to stop the cold drip of worry trickling down his spine like sweat. It’s never like this, not really. Everything feels so broken, so hopelessly lost and devoid of hope, an imitation of how he felt the day his mother left his side. 

Eventually, the spell has to be broken by the slam of glass doors, because otherwise Yuri’s going out in baby pink pyjamas and flushed, wet cheeks. _Maybe I’ll ask him about it,_ he decides, chewing on his lip as he regards his wardrobe. On the one hand, he wants to look pretty, and there’s a denim dungaree dress with his name written all over it. Then again, he doesn’t want to scare off Otabek like he had with so many in the past.

In the end, he settles on a ditsy floral bardot top the ties just above his belly button, highlighting the delicate contours of his décolletage. His jeans are high waisted, but skin tight  how he likes them, not leaving much to the imagination at all. Yuri’s going to make it his personal goal to get Otabek undressing him with his eyes as much as possible. 

Just a little before seven, he spritzes his neck with perfume a soft, powdery scent that reminds him of backstage drama and candy floss. It’s still much too hot for makeup, so Yuri settles for a dab of gloss that plumps his lips into a glistening pout. And when there’s a knock at the door just a couple minutes after seven, Yuri can’t help the excited little squeal bubbling up his throat.

Of course, _dedushka_ gets to the door first, levelling Otabek with a glare so intense he visibly squirms. In his arms is a bouquet of vibrant oranges and yellows. _Flowers. He’s got me flowers._

“Are those for me?” Grandpa barks, and Otabek lets out a startled laugh and _shit_ if Yuri thought he was cute before, it was nothing compared to the bashful blush the spreads to his cheeks when he’s embarrassed.

“Grandpa, please,” Yuri says, pushing past him to press a kiss to Otabek’s warm cheek and catching a whiff of his cologne, leather and sandalwood, just enough to make his knees weak. Yuri accepts the flowers, bring them to his nose and inhaling, but nothing could ever smell better than the man before him.

And yes, those eyes do trail his ass as he saunters into the kitchen, reaching for a vase from a top cabinet and filling it with water.

“Where are you taking him?” And so the inquisition begins. Yuri had planned for his grandpa to be out by now, but he’djust so happened to stay in tonight instead of playing poker down at the social. 

“I was hoping to go to La Salute if that’s okay?”

Yuri nods eagerly, otherwise watching the conversation fold out before him.

“And what time will you be back?”

“No later than eleven, sir.” Yuri can’t help but roll his eyes, because curfew be damned he was going to stay out until Otabek no longer wanted him there.

This is when Nikolai really narrows his gaze at him. “And you’ll keep your hands to yourself?”

“Grandpa!” Yuri’s hastily stuffing his feet into tan sandals and grabbing his bag. He drops a kiss atop the cap upon his head, and says a hasty _don’t wait up_ before grabbing Otabek by the wrist and slamming the door behind him.

For a moment they just stare at each other, Yuri drinking up the vision of muscles straining under leather and denim, and _fuck_ did Otabek get his hair touched up for him?

Yuri smirks triumphantly as Otabek’s stare fixates on the pale strip of midriff above his jeans, then lower, _lower,_ until the concentrated  attention causes his hips to stutter. “Are you going to take me to dinner before fucking me with your eyes?”

“Sorry,” Otabek stammers, not looking all that sorry. If anything he looked _thankful_ , eyes burning like embers of coal, and that heat soon spreads to Yuri because _wow_. _He’s looking at me like that, like he’s the lucky one_. “You just look really good.”

Yuri’s smiles like the first rays of sun after a month of rain, beaming more at these compliments than any of the empty appreciation his mother had ever given him. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

Reaching up, he strokes the velvety bristles at the nape of his neck, the feeling much similar to the baby hairs that crest Potya’s ears. Their bodies lean closer together, Otabek’s smile smoulders into something deeper, and _shit_ they were supposed to be doing this properly, but all Yuri wants is to be dragged up the flight of stairs and fucked on the kitchen counter. 

“We should probably, uh-”

“Go before we get distracted?” Otabek chuckles, offering Yuri his arm which he gladly accepts. Leather feels buttery smooth under his fingertips, and he finds himself holding on tighter than is probably necessary. 

As they wait for the elevator, Otabek turns to him, a sly look creasing his forehead. “Have you ever been on a motorbike?”

*

So much for not ruining his hair. Yuri emerges out of the helmet two twigs shy of a birds nest, but he can’t find it in him to care. “That was so fucking _cool_.”

“Right?” Otabek says, and Yuri desperately misses the feel of hard muscles beneath his fingers as soon as he swings off the bike. “There’s nothing quite like it.”

“It felt like I was fucking _flying_ ,” Yuri enthuses, waiting patiently as they secure up before grabbing Otabek’s gloved hand. “You’re going to have to take me out farther.”

“I will, one day,” he promises, tenderly tucking an unruly curl behind his ear, the gentle caress of warm leather on his skin coaxing a gentle flush to rise. Caught off guard, Yuri stumbles as he’s led to the restaurant, knees weaker not only because of the exhilarating ride over. 

La Salute is a small Italian place that’s way out of his budget and _shit_ , Yuri hadn’t even considered who was supposed to be paying. It's never gotten to the point where Yuri's been on a proper date, not one where he wasn’t being buttered up for rough sex with too-sweet cocktails and dishes he couldn’t even begin to pronounce. 

Suddenly nervous, Yuri chews on a hangnail as he studies the menu. There’s a Caprice salad that isn’t _too_ expensive, but he can’t help but be overwhelmed by all the things he can’t afford. 

“Hey,” Otabek says, gently bring the hand at his mouth back down to the table and running his thumb across his knuckles. “Get anything you want, okay? I’m buying.”

“Otabek…”

“No, I chose the place, it’s okay,” he says, and the small smile is enough to ease some of the tension in his chest.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before,” Yuri admits, hanging his head in shame. _I really don’t want to ruin this. Please don’t let me ruin this._ Thinking it would be easier with all of his cards on the table, he confesses “I don’t know how this goes.”

“Well, normally you talk, get to know each other, play footsie under the table and see if they reciprocate.” That’s when Yuri feels soft pressure on the inside of his calf, and Yuri snorts, kicking hard and enjoying the laughter lines that surround Otabek’s eyes.

“Hey now, Mr let’s-take-it-slow, at least tell me about yourself first.”

A waiter comes over and asks for their drinks. Otabek orders a diet coke, Yuri a glass of red wine. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know, the basics. I literally know nothing about you except you play like fucking _Chopin_ and have a serious thing for my ass.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” he murmurs, not denying it, having the gall to give him a once over that sends sparks pirouetting across his skin. Yuri raises an inquisitive brow when their eyes finally meet, offering him his most seductive smirk.

Over the next twenty minutes, they talk about things that are normally discussed long before you know what the inside of someone’s mouth feels like. Otabek is twenty one, and from Kazakhstan. His surname is Altin, meaning Gold, and Yuri thinks it’s so fitting with how his eyes shine with flecks of the precious metal in the twinkling candlelight. Their hands edge ever closer on the checkered tablecloth, to the point where they have to separate when the waiter brings their food.

“You look older than eighteen,” Otabek comments, dabbing the corner of his lip with a napkin. There’s a streak of pasta sauce across the dimple in his chin, so his miss the mark completely.

“I get that a lot,” Yuri says with a shrug. It was rare when people asked of his age, normally more focussed on the sway of his hips and how his hair fell over his shoulder. Only once had someone stopped, finding out he was just seventeen dressed in thigh high stockings and a slip. “It’s probably the height.”

Rolling his eyes, he drags his thumb across Otabek’s chin. As he draws away, long fingers cuff his wrist, holding him in place. “No, I think it’s because you have the eyes of a soldier.”

Soft lips wrap around him, sucking ever so gently whilst keeping that smouldering gaze locked on his. Yuri’s eyes widen in shock, in uncontrollable desire, because the way Otabek’s tongue flicks just against the nail is probably the sexiest thing anyone’s ever done to him. And when he feels the sharp press of eager incisors- well, Yuri’s not sure if more blood runs to his face or his dick. 

Then just like that, the pressure’s gone, and Yuri’s left with his hand midair and his mouth agape. “Wh-what?” he stammers, cradling his fist to his chest. “You can’t just compliment me, then fucking bite me as if I’m yours.”

“Do you want to be mine?” Otabek asks, and Yuri can’t believe he ever thought this man was a gentleman when in reality he is goddamn _dirty_. It’s not like he can even pretend how much he likes it, not now he’s slipped his sandal off under the table and is dangerously close to nudging Otabek’s crotch.

“Buy me desert and we’ll see.”

*

“You know,” Yuri muses, savouring the taste of strawberries as gelato melts on his tongue. Otabek watches with rampant fascination as he licks his spoon clean, and okay, he might be putting on a show, but he’s always been told his head is amazing. “I didn’t have ice cream until I was thirteen years old.”

“Thirteen?” Pupils blown wide, Otabek drags his attention away from his mouth, obviously affected. _Good._ There is nothing Yuri wants more than to make Otabek think about his lips wrapped around his dick, and judging by the way he shifts in his seat, it’s working.

“Yeah. I’d been on this same restrictive diet for years. No dairy, no fat, no excess sugar.” As if to prove just how fucking much he had loved that, he takes another bite, and then around it says,“I was told I had to lose five pounds or I’d get axed from fucking _Coppélia_.”

“That’s awful.” Desire and sympathy battle for dominance in dark eyes. In the end, Otabek settles on covering Yuri’s hand with his own.

“Right? I didn’t even want to be in the goddamn thing. Comic ballet is _so_ not my style,” he says, and Otabek just nods as if knowing exactly what he’s on about. “So naturally I bought a litre of mint choc chip on the way home and ate the entire thing.”

Yuri doesn’t tell him of how when his mother found the empty carton in his bag, she’d dragged him into the bathroom by the ear, forcing her own spindly fingers down his throat when he refused to do it himself.

“I’m starting to think you’re a little bit of a rebel.”

“ _I’m_ a rebel? Look who’s talking, with your leather jacket and fucking Harley.”

“It get’s better,” he promises. “My uncle would lie to my parents about taking me to tutoring. Taught me to ride, how to maintain a car, how to whip up a real mean devil’s food cake.”

“Oh, so you’re a bad boy and a baker? Looks like you’re the real perfect package.” And from what Yuri can feel of his dick through layers of denim, he really did have a _package_ alright. A suggestive wink lets Otabek know exactly what he’s thinking about right now, running one slow stripe down the seam of his jeans before pulling away with the most angelic smile he can muster. 

As Otabek pays the bill, Yuri applies more lipgloss using the back of a spoon as a mirror. There’s not much he can do about the freshness of his breath because buying condoms had seemed much more important than buying gum. Hopefully, he likes cherry flavoured kisses, as that's all he’s getting.

He’s led outside with a hand on the small of his back, and after all the suggestive foot play they’d exchanged under the table, Yuri would have thought Otabek would have aimed lower. Stopping dead in his tracks, causing a middle aged woman to push on past with a glare like frost fall, Yuri guides those fingers until they’re buried in the back pocket of his jeans, cupping his arse. Squeezing gently, Yuri can’t help the delighted mewl that escapes his lips as he wraps an arm around his waist.

A brush of hot air caresses his ear, lips dangerously close but never touching. “Wanna go for a walk?”

“If by walk you mean sneaking down an alleyway to make out, then yes.”

That’s how Yuri finds himself sat on a dumpster, fingers running through the silky waves of Otabek’s hair as he works relentlessly on the sensitive skin of his neck.“Beka, don’t leave a mark.”

“Beka?” Yuri suppresses a whine when he breaks away, staring at him with eyes that are considerably more pupil than they are iris. 

“Beka.” He’s not going to apologise for it, especially not when greedy hands pull him closer to get better access to his bare collarbones, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses that make Yuri’s toes curl. 

“You taste good,” Otabek says breathlessly, nipping playfully at protruding bones.

“You haven’t tasted anything yet,” Yuri says, eyes burning with fiery promise. Hooking a finger under his chin, he leans down to finally capture Otabek’s mouth with his, savouring the grunt of pleasure as he wraps his legs around his waist, their crotches brushing together. The other hand snakes to Otabek’s ass, kneading the flesh with deft fingers until he’s groaning his name like a curse. 

“We should-” Yuri swallows the words away, because he knows the last word is going to be  _stop_ , and the last thing he wants to do is lose the feeling of nails scratching hungrily down the rivets of his spine. Rolling his hips experimentally earns another groan, and this time an actual curse, a strained _fuck_ that makes Yuri want to do just that, right there in the alleyway where anyone could watch them.

Unable to resist, Yuri’s hand edges closer and closer to the waistband of Otabek’s jeans, teasing the skin just above the button, scratching at coarse hair that trails from his navel. Grabbing the outline of his dick earns a sharp bite to his bottom lip, and Yuri runs a single finger up to the zipper before leaning away. “Tell me to stop. Tell me to stop and I will.”

They stare at each other, rumpled and dazed. Then Otabek heaves a sigh, shoulders dropping as he stands away and shoves his fists deep in his pockets. Yuri raises a taunting brow as he rearranges himself but otherwise feels the loss of their closeness instantly. It doesn’t feel like rejection, not really. They were supposed to be taking it slow after all. Yet it still stings bitterly when Beka offers him his hand, and he jumps down from the dumpster onto unsteady feet. 

“It’s not that I want to stop,” he admits, brushing hair away from his cheek with tender affection. “God, Yuri, you drive me crazy. I just don’t want to do this here, in some filthy backstreet like this is some dirty little secret. You deserve more than that.”

“Beka…” There’s a lump in his throat that won’t go away, no matter how many times he swallows around it. He must look stupid, gaping with his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in an attempt to swallow the tears that ache with such ferocity. _Don’t cry. Oh my God, don’t cry, idiot._ But Yuri can’t help the embarrassing sniffle that escapes unwillingly, pressing his face into the crook of Otabek’s neck in an attempt to mask the first sign of weakness that escapes through his lashes. “Why are you so perfect?”

“I’m not perfect,” he murmurs, trying his best to stroke his hair, but every few seconds Yuri’s head jerks as he reaches a snag. He settles on rubbing his back, smoothing calloused palms against skin hot from arousal. “Wanna go back?”

Nuzzling under his ear, Yuri nods, leaving one last lingering kiss at the juncture of his jaw before stepping away. “Yeah.” 

*

Riding back home is hard- literally. Being pressed so tight without being able to really touch is torture in the sweetest of forms, and he’s sure Otabek notices when he grinds against his ass just for afew blissful moments of friction. At a red light, he has to pointedly move Yuri’s hands higher from where they have itched scandalously low against his torso. 

It becomes a bit of a game, tracing patterns across the valleys of his abdominals until Yuri can feel the hitching in his breathing, tight beneath his fingers. Really, he shouldn’t be distracting Otabek when both of their lives are at risk, but the thrill of the chase is just as intense as the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

It seems an agonisingly long time until they’re in the parking garage, stumbling off the bike and into each other with a searing kiss obstructed by head gear. They laugh as they free themselves, Otabek backing him against the wall with a knee between his thighs, breathing a ghost of a kiss against his lips before flicking his nose and walking away.

“You fucking tease, Altin!” Yuri shouts after him, jogging to keep up and giving his ass a fiendish slap. 

“You love it.” And God, Yuri did. But Otabek was leading him closer and closer to his grandfather, and Yuri knows he’s going to try and be the better man and give him one last parting peck before he opens the door.

“I want to see your piano.” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, and the request hangs heavy in the air. Otabek doesn’t exactly grimace, but there’s a hardening to his eyes that’s hard to ignore, and he seems to think seriously about his answer before offering a curt nod.

“You’re going home on time, though,” and Yuri rolls his eyes, because of course he is, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to try and convince him otherwise. 

When they get to the elevator, the eighth floor is selected instead of the seventh, and Yuri dots kisses still tacky with lipgloss along the strong line of Otabek’s jaw. On his list of places he’d rather get off, in an elevator is ranked much higher than on a dumpster. Yet every touch is agonisingly innocent, though it’s not through Yuri’s lack of trying.

“Behave,” Beka mutters, yanking him sharply by the belt loops in a way that makes Yuri want to do anything but.

“Make me.” The doors ping open, and before Yuri finds out exactly Otabek would do, an old woman that smells of talc and clove cigarettes joins them. He’d like to imagine it’d involve pinning his arms against the mirrored walls and being forced to watch devilish acts being done to his body. Instead, they stand on opposite sides, forced to breathe in the same air as someone who really needed to kick their nicotine habit.

The eighth floor is in much better condition than the seventh, considering the carpet doesn’t sport any questionable stains and there isn’t a bordered up door emitting strange smells through cracks in the boards. Yuri waits patiently, so torturously patiently, as Otabek unlocks the door and slips a switch, and Yuri has to blink to get used to the sudden brightness. 

It’s all so minimal, barely any clutter or signs that someone actually spent their hours here. Blindingly white walls empty of any tokens of a past life, furniture straight out of an Ikea catalogue. Both a sad and a good thing, really. Sad, because the apartment lacked the warmth and spirit the home he shared with his dedushka did. Good, because it meant there were plenty of empty surfaces to be fucked into, starting with the broad expanse of ebony wood of a baby grand piano. 

Unable to resist, Yuri trails his fingers across the lid, leaving greasy fingerprints as if he weren’t pure enough to touch it. “How did you even get this up here?”

“Took the legs off,” Otabek shrugs, sitting on a faded leather stool, fingers twitching over the keys. Yuri waits with baited breath for the first notes to come, but they never do. With a sigh, his hands drop to his lap as if invisible weights are tied to his knuckles. “I hate this.”

A startled like choke causes Yuri to splutter. _He hates this? I thought- I thought this was going well._ Sagging down on the sofa, he wrings his fingers through his hair because now it made sense, why Otabek didn’t want him to touch him. This was all a mistake, and he must have realised it at some point tonight. Had he come on too strong? Oh, who was he kidding, he always comes on too strong, but that's just who Yuri is, and if Otabek doesn't like that then it's  his loss. He didn’t want to be hopelessly and utterly taken apart by him anyway, didn’t want to hear all of his childhood stories or dance to all of his symphonies. _That’s what you get, Yuri. Once a slut, always a slut._

“Yuri?”

“Huh?” he whips his head up, and Otabek’s there before him with a stupid worry line creasing his brow that Yuri just wants to smooth away. He doesn’t though, because obviously he’s been overstepping boundaries all evening and he doesn’t want to appear even more desperate.

“I asked if you were alright.” 

Yuri baulks, lips popping open before he can snap himself out of it. “You _hate_ this. Why should it matter if I’m alright?”

“God, Yuri, no. _No_.” There’s touches to his face, to his shoulders, and they all feel blisteringly hot in the worst of ways. “I hate _this,”_ he gestures behind him to the instrument that rules his life. “The _piano_. My career. Not us. Did you really think…?” 

“Yes, I really thought!” And it bubbles in him, relief, then anger at himself, at Otabek for making him panic and hate himself, then relief again as it all washes over him and he realises how stupid he is, for making assumptions. “I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re a cute idiot.” Otabek stoops to claim his lips in a slow, sensuous kiss that leaves him breathless. Guiding him down beside him, Yuri straddles his lap, much like he had the day before, and lets Otabek convince him with teeth and tongue just how much he wanted him.

“Are we still taking it slow?” Yuri pants as his shirt rides higher and higher up his chest. Otabek seems to have a fascination with his ribs, running his nails over them and pressing between the gaps with a pressure that makes him gasp. 

“Yura…” _Yura. God help me._ Feverish hands work at the button of his jeans, palming over the growing bulge with determined fingers. Finally, he’s able to feel the soft cotton of his boxers, and if he reaches just so, his fingers slip through the flap and meet hot, velvety skin and-

“Yuri.” It’s definite this time. With the strength of a saint, Otabek wraps his hand around Yuri’s wrist, gently tugging so he’s cradled in his arms. A soft whimper escapes because _fuck_ , he’d never been rejected before, so sweetly but with the sting of a thousand needles because Yuri _so_ wants this. “I do. Still want to take it slow.”

“Okay.” They sit there, rocking slightly. Yuri actually starts to feel drowsy in the warm circle of Otabek’s embrace, pressing feather-light kisses against his flickering pulse. 

For the first time, Yuri doesn’t mind, not really, holding back. Not if it meant spending more time exploring and discovering things about Otabek. Being treated right for the first time in his life, because God knows he’s earned it by now.

And if he goes home and fucks himself until he’s sobbing, it wouldn’t matter, because just above him Otabek’s doing the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accelerando: to gradually quicken the tempo
> 
> Writing this has been a good break away from the constant angst and torture I put myself through in Just a Spark.  
> To be honest, I rewrote quite a bit of this many a time, and there was actually supposed to be a lot more happening this chapter but I've moved it to Ch3 so at least I have a starting point there.
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments and kudos on the first chapter! This fic is very much a just for fun, gonna take my sweet, sweet time fic so I hope you bare with me and it's sporadic updates. 
> 
> Shout out again to [ daddybek](http://daddybek.tumblr.com/) for coming up with the original amazing HC!
> 
> I'm also on tumblr! Come say hi and hang in Otayuri hell with me ^.*
> 
> [ My main, zeldaismyhomegirl ^.^](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)   
>  [My yoi sideblog, yaoi-i-mean-yuri-on-ice ^.^ ](http://yaoi-i-mean-yuri-on-ice.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Hopefully, it won't be an entire month until I update this next!
> 
> See you then!
> 
> xoxo Cat
> 
> p.s excuse typos it's 4 am and I'm running on adrenaline


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